


Le Petite Mort

by Deejaymil



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: .......and the dinner table, ...and the shower, Abuse of the English Language, Birthday Smut, Cunning use of goats, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fibonacci actually, Humor, Kinky, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Silly, Smutting in the woods, The Author Regrets Nothing, They're fucking with feelings, and the pool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-06 03:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10324175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: Hotch is in orange shorts withWILDemblazoned across the ass in a vibrant purple, Spencer's been replaced by a changeling 1000x times kinkier than he's ever been, and there's no way at leastoneof the highly trained profilers they're holidaying with don't know that he's trying to fuck her into a coma. But without the fucking.Emily's pretty sure she's slipped into an alternate universe at some point between here and DC, but there's not much she can do about that when the kinky changeling won't leave her alone long enough for her to catch her breath.





	1. 15:24

**Author's Note:**

> She’s seen terrible, terrible things in her life. The worst of humanity. The cruellest kinds of people. The most callous of hearts. Emily Prentiss has, in her thirty-six years of life, been shocked and appalled and downright disheartened by what the human race offers up to her for perusal.

And then, there’s today.

“Nice knees,” she tells Hotch—Aaron? Maybe she should call him Aaron. _Hotch_ has never in his life worn board shorts, but maybe Aaron does. “Honestly thought you’d swim in the suit.”

He shoots her a glare that’s a little bit sassy and saunters away with his head held high and the ass of his orange board-shorts emblazoned with _WILD_ in a vibrant purple cursive. Dave bought them for him. Said they were a gift.

He’d bought them all ‘gifts’, and Emily refused to be seen dead in the shorts he’d gotten her. Reid, on the other hand, after considerable pleading and asking and, eventually, reminding that they all carried guns, had squeezed into his.

Blue and silver; Emily can’t help but slip her fingers along the ridged outline of the word _Pretty_ across one of his butt-cheeks as they slip from the car and walk towards the forest cabins they’d be spending this one, glorious weekend in. And she’s not at all surprised when JJ shoots her a catty kind of grin, winks, and says, “You’re sharing with Spence,” because she’d suspected that they’d known for months now, and her fondling his ass on the way out the car probably hadn’t exactly helped with that suspicion. “Happy birthday.”

“It’s not her birthday until tomorrow,” Reid protests, lugging his bag out of the car and hers too, because he’s a helpful little shit, and she rolls her eyes at him. The morning sun is sharp on his face, making his eyes gleam warmly and catching the light in his hair. It’s a nice look. She hums and doesn’t complain at all about their sleeping arrangements. Not with the extra-curriculars she has planned that might be a little awkward with Hotch cuddled up doing budgets in the next bed over. “No gifts until tomorrow!”

But he smiles with a grin like a promise, and the jolt in her stomach is cool and hot all at once. Because that’s a _saucy_ smile, and she barely hears Rossi demanding that they all swim together when the afternoon heat sets in, to ‘get some use out of my gifts for you, team-bonding, woo!’

Morgan and Garcia are wrestling over the key for their own shared cabin, Hotch is firmly setting out the rules for his—she’s sure Rossi is _already_ ignoring them, somehow—and JJ has dibsed the double bed in Morgan’s cabin, leaving them with the bunks. They don’t seem to mind, much. Emily snorts and tries not to look too eager as she follows her always partner/best friend/sometimes boyfriend/mostly just fucking to their own cabin, ignoring the fact that they’ve been fucking with feelings for almost a year now and that’s practically going steady. She doesn’t do steady. But a weekend of birthday sex in the middle of a pine-swept forest? _That_ she’s totally down with.

But not right now, as JJ’s dire warnings of ‘ten minutes to change and I’m coming to get you to check out the walking trails!’ follows her into the neatly furnished cabin. Reid unlocks it with a sweep of his arm and holds the door open for her with an equally corny chuckle.

“Nice place,” she says, because of course it is. She doubts Rossi has ever ‘roughed it’ when given a choice. “Can’t wait to soil it.” And she smirks at him, feeling the hot-cool sensation sink a little when he just looks cocky and self-assured instead of absolutely allured by her.

Fuck. He’s going to be _smart_ about this.

“I’m not sleeping with you,” he announces like it’s a good thing, dropping their bags on the bed. He’s already dressed, she just has to change her pants to something more ‘woodsy’, and she shucks them with a groan and a growl and turns her back on him so he can’t tell how frustrated she is by that statement. “Yet.”

Silence. She cocks her head back and arches an eyebrow at him, kicking her pants off and realizing she has to face him properly to walk past to get to her bag. Damn.

“I said no gifts,” she tells him sternly, striding past with her dignity absolutely intact. “That doesn’t mean I don’t get _anything_ for my birthday, bucko.” His fingers twist on the zip of his own bag as he pulls something loose and steps back and away, hand flickering behind his back and out of sight.

“It’s not birthday sex unless it’s your birthday,” he clarifies, and when she leans down to rifle through her bag for something loose enough to hike in, he crowds up behind her. One hand on her hip, fingers tracing the line of her underwear, he bumps against her and he’s already hard. She tenses, a shiver working from her chest right to her crotch and bringing with it a rush of damp that would be almost embarrassing if she hadn’t long ago gotten over being shamed by her intense response to his touch. But he’s still talking, his voice a deep-rumble she can feel through his fucking _dick_ as he rubs against her like a horny cat, folding his body down over her back. Breath on her spine, that damned hand still rubbing her hip, she has to brace her own hands on the bed to stop from unsteadily tipping forward.

Like _fuck_ he’s not having sex with her if this is his lead-up to letting her down. That’s just…

“Mean,” she manages through a throat that’s trying to hold its breath and puff it out all at once. He rubs again, slowly, making a deep, breathy _oh_ of satisfaction at the teasing pressure. She feels him twitch, feels him harden more, and outside she can hear laughing. Did he lock the door? She doesn’t think he did. “What is this if it’s not going to be sex?” She doesn’t trust him an inch.

“It’s foreplay,” he rumbles after a dark chuckle, and she shivers with the sudden huskiness to his tone. “We have exactly fifteen hours and twenty-four minutes until it’s officially your birthday. And I plan on making the most of it.”

His hand has slipped from her hip and down between her legs now, fingers sliding slowly along the already shockingly wet cotton. Her heart skips, her stomach plunges with a warm jolt that becomes another rush of wet that he hums with appreciation at feeling, and his other hand joins the party as the fingers sneak away. They’re replaced by him pushing her down onto the bed, hips canted up still, and a blunt pressure that she’s puzzled by but can’t see when she twists around to look. All she can see is him, braced behind her, his mouth partly open and eyes impossibly dark. The pressure rubs, teases, and then it clicks. She jerks up against him with a gasp as it hums and hums and sends a shocking thrill of _fuck fuck fuckyesfuck_ into her.

“What the _fuck?”_ she manages, as his fingers snake up to tug her underwear aside, pushing the vibrator slowly _into_ her. She’s stunned, confused, aroused, probably about to come just from _surprise_ , and he’s relentless. “Spence, oh, shit, what?!” It slips in and she’s gone, barely thinking except for his hand holding her up, rippling and tensing around it as it sends shockwaves of _want_ through her whole body and she melts into the glee of it.

He bows down over her again, kissing her neck, her shoulder, and she can feel his cock hard and heavy against her ass, his breathing strained. “I’m going to make you come,” he purrs into the skin of her throat, and she whines because _he fucking is, she practically is, just a little—_ “…over and over and over again, as many times as I can, between now and midnight. But I’m not going to fuck you.” He draws the vibrator free slowly, with a wet, sucking sound, and her legs forget how to leg as he slips it along her and presses the throbbing tip to her clit. And, just like that, she’s coming and he knows it. “I’ve put _considerable_ thought into this.”

She bets he has. She’s not putting much thought into anything right now, except twitching against the bed and swallowing down the moans that will make him far too smug for her liking, suddenly aware of the crunch of gravel approaching. She’s almost done, obviously fucked, and he still has her underwear pulled to the side and baring her to the world as he watches the last ripples of her climax fade with open fascination.

“Spence,” she manages, hearing JJ laugh. “ _Spencer._ ” He eases back slightly, flicks the off-button. Strokes her twice with his filthy fingers, right through the wettest part of her, and finally lets her go.

“You guys decent?” JJ calls through the door, and Emily barely manages to look at him with something like horror. She’s not. She’s so fucking not, and he’s clearly hard with a flush to his face that gives it away from the throat up, even if he didn’t have the fingers he just used to touch her pressed to his lips.

“Just a minute,” Spencer calls, and slides his hand down to rub his thumb longingly across that tented shape, his hips rolling into his own palm and his eyelids heavy. “ _Happy birthday_ ,” he whispers, with a wink, and vanishes back into the bathroom.

Not entirely sure what just happened, super not sure what alien had taken her friend and replaced him with this kinky little _fuck_ , she takes a second to compose herself before following. If he looks smug as she cleans the mess from between her legs, she refuses to acknowledge it.


	2. 13:22

The walk is _lovely_. It’s peaceful, amusing—Hotch and JJ are apparently brilliant at hiking, and she’s not even shocked, but Rossi whines the whole time and Spencer falls over no fewer than eight trees and a baby deer—and she doesn’t trust that to last. Not after the saucy way that Spencer grins at her as she picks him up from the last tree, or the way his hand lingers on her hip as they watch Bambi scamper away from dangerously clumsy geniuses. Sick of his shit, the rest of the team have walked ahead, leaving them alone with Morgan’s voice faintly floating back. Emily starts off after with her mind only half on the pretty swathe of wildflowers rocking it out on one side of the path, a thick screen of ferns on the other.

When he comes up behind her like a ghostly super-nerd and covers her mouth with one soft palm, she almost throws him into those flowers. Life tip; don’t grab a gal taught self-defence by A. Hotchner. As it is, she elbows him in the gut as she reflexively lurches out of his grasp, but he takes advantage of that movement and uses it to bring her down. They roll together with a _thumpf_ down through the screen of ferns. It’s ungainly, probably not what he planned, but he still manages to land on top of her, giggling nervously with sticks in his hair.

“Smooth,” she wheezes, struggling out from under him before he can, somehow, read from her micro-expressions that the cocky fucker has her wet already. Just the _implication_ that he plans to touch her has her gagging, and she’s almost ashamed of herself. Almost. But then he shuffles after her, on his knees with his expression turning fierce and focused, and pushes her back with a _thump_ against a tree. Before she can scold him, there are fingers working her pants open—he casts a look over his shoulder towards the hidden path and she wiggles at how long he lets that look linger—and is sliding them down her hips just enough that he can work her legs apart with his wide hands. And she’s breathing heavily, staring at him, not super sure just what the _fuck_ he thinks he’s doing, and she’s still confused right up until his head ducks between her legs and there’s a hot, wet mouth pressing _hard_ against her second set of cotton panties for the day.

She’s not even going to bother putting another pair on at this rate.

“Jesus, _fuck me_ ,” she exclaims, her fingers through his hair and yanking up. He rides the movement, his tongue rolling against her as he rocks with the tug on his hair, and chuckles right into her with a low, throbbing thrum. And then he’s away, leaning back, her panties sliding down as well to allow that wicked tongue access to her clit.

And she’s lost. She’s distantly aware of the damp sounds he’s making, her fingers in his hair and her hips trying to suffocate the poor guy as he moves from her clit to her cunt and attempts to fuck her with just his for-once silent tongue. She’s still vaguely hot from his attentions earlier and it’s nothing at all for him to get her going again, and she absently realizes she’s going to come with his lips locked to her and his tongue going to town. He’s doing something now, some weird humming rhythm, his hand rubbing tight, frantic circles on the skin of her thigh like he’s only just holding himself back from fucking his hand as she fucks his face, and then she realizes he’s not humming but talking.

“I swear to god…” she manages, and then stops to moan because he’s using his thumb on her clit now while his tongue laps a line right through her centre, “…if you’re reciting pi or something while doing _this_ …” She doesn’t finish that sentence because he pulls away with a gross/hot sound and looks up at her with his mouth shiny and says, “Fibonacci, actually,” before returning to his duty between her thighs.

Shit.

That’s dorky as shit.

She comes anyway with a moan and a buckle of her knees, and he lurches up and steadies her against the tree with the weight of his body as he frantically kisses her. His lips are wet, warm, and they taste like salt and her. As soon as she stops shuddering through a ragged, half-shocked climax, she sucks his lower lip into his mouth and uses the suction to clean it, feeling him whimper slightly and rock into her, shivering and painfully hard, his expression half fucked out already.

“If you’re not going to let me get you off,” she breathes, reaching for his cock and having him smack her hand away, “you’re going to have a bad day.” It’s a little mean, but she purrs this into his ear as she licks at the lobe, and he’s going to be putty in her over-sexed hands by the time they get to the actual sex.

“I have supreme self-control,” he manages, straightening with his pants tented out amusingly, and tugs some, bizarrely, wet wipes from the side pocket of his bag in order to clean his mouth and jaw. _Boy-scout,_ she thinks, but doesn’t say, and he cleans her mouth for her before pulling her panties back up and slowly zipping up her fly. She just watches, still woozy.

“Beautiful,” he says, and kisses her again. “This is a treat for me, seeing you like this. All flushed and stunning…”

“Suck up,” she replies. She’s uncomfortably damp, the cotton slapping wetly against her when she walks to see if she can. “I can’t believe you didn’t do this closer to home so I could change.”

He just smiles. Whatever he’s going to say is lost as Morgan crashes out of nowhere and pokes his head through the ferns to raise an eyebrow at them.

“The hell are you two doing over here, and why are you covered in…” He stops halfway through asking and looks at them askew before wolf-whistling and vanishing back into the trees. “Oi, I found them. You’ll _never_ guess doing what.”

“I can’t think of anything I want to know less,” Rossi replies, and Emily groans as Garcia shrieks.

“We have clothes on!” Emily hollers, hearing a sharp, “That don’t mean shit!” from Morgan.

They’re pretty busted, but it doesn’t seem to bother Spencer.

Nor does it stop him.

“That’s two,” he says, and glances down to see if he’s decent before walking away.

Dizzily, she follows.


	3. 9:43

He rambles some long and complicated tale about the UV index and incidental rate of melanomas, and all that just to get her to agree to let him put sunscreen on her back before they go outside the change room to join the others in the pool. She’s not game to let him get his hands near her— _or_ his mouth—but he does create a convincing argument, and she won’t lie that she’s a little excited just by the idea of him touching her. It’s a weird see-saw of her feeling wrung out already with half a day still left to go and being wildly ready for whatever he decides to bring to the table next.

As it turns out, what he brings to the table, is a _terrifyingly efficient_ massage technique. 

She’s tying her hair up out of the way of his hands, standing in front of the mirrors above the sinks along one wall. He’s behind her, rambling on, his hands rubbing circles of cold cream into her back and shoulderblades as he chatters away happily. In the mirror, she watches him, watches how his eyes follow the shift of muscles in her back, watches the giddy grin that he’s smiling, watches the shift of his face turn from pleased to _wicked_.

Cool fingers trail down her spine. His gaze, in the mirrors, lifts to meet hers. They stare and he smiles again, as he undoes the tie of her bikini. She could stop it from sliding free. She doesn’t. She’s bare from the waist up and his hands slide around to cup her breasts for a heartbeat before smoothly slipping away.

Watching her watch him, he continues the massage. Without the cream this time. Just working his hands in firm, even circles around her back. Her sides. Pressing the muscles and releasing. There’s nothing sexual about it, except for the darkness of his pupils as he watches her face, and it’s the hottest thing he’s done yet. In the mirror, she can see a flush spilling down from her cheeks to her chest, her nipples hard and dark against her skin, her fingers gripping the rim of the sink like it’s all that’s holding her upright. She bumps back against him, just to see, and he’s half-hard and breathing deeply. There’s a loose thread of hair stuck to her sunscreeny shoulder, and she looks at it and then looks at him in the mirror as he uses a finger to tuck it back into place.

And then she watches him kiss her. Slowly. He mouths his way up her neck, every brush of his lips against her skin reverent. She watches his eyes slip closed in the grainy image of the mirror; he pauses to breathe because there’s something complicated flickering across his expression. And then, instead of breathing, he kisses her again, his fingers cupping her arm as he instead inhales her, and it’s… more than she understands. That choice is beyond her, she’s completely inadequate in the face of it. As he chooses her over oxygen and seems absolutely sure of it. His lips leave small marks on her skin, there’s sunscreen on his mouth, and those eyes flicker open. He looks at her.

She whimpers a little and her bikini bottom is sticking already. She clenches her legs shut. He brushes a hand down to ease them back open, fingers tracing the inner line of her thigh. But he doesn’t touch her where she wants to be touched. He doesn’t even seem to consider it. Just brings his palm to her belly, lays it flat, and then kisses down her spine before straightening and turning her to kiss her on the mouth.

Oh. He tastes like sunscreen, like heat and marshmallow and coffee and _him_. Her turn to inhale him before sucking his lower lip into hers, before coaxing his mouth open with her tongue to dart inside as his hands come up to cup either side of her jaw. There’s no noise in the room except for the breathy little whispers of moans they’re both making, the rasp of their skin rubbing together, the soft sounds of lips meeting and parting and meeting again.

They haven’t spoken. And they don’t. They just pull apart. His eyes are huge. The pupils are diluted. She traces her fingers around the shape of the flush on his cheek and down along his jawline until she’s pressing the tips against his mouth. He opens his lips. Nips at her fingers. Slides his lips over them and mouths gently before pulling free.

She murmurs something that might not be a something at all but could also be a _holy fuck_.

And then he stoops to pick up her bikini top and, dazed, she helps him tie it back. Takes his hand. They walk from the changing room stunned and hyper-focused on each other, stealing tiny, furtive glances at each other as they step out into the sunlight. She can’t stop looking at him. Something has changed. He’s doing exactly the same. They join the others in a shell-shocked kind of silence, smiling and joking and pretending they’re who they were before she watched them fall in love. The pool is cold and she can’t enjoy it when he’s being tossed around by Morgan and Rossi, while she’s splashing playfully at Hotch, or giggling with JJ and Garcia, and all she can think about is swimming down and down into the blue depths and finding where he’s standing. It’s a feeling horribly like being sixteen again, and she’s not a fan.

The sun vanishes behind a cloud and the cloud brings with it an autumn chill that turns lips blue and noses red and has a few of them scurrying for towels. She leans against the pool wall and shivers through it, enjoying the cold because it reminds her she’s alive to feel. And he finds her there, wading over with his skin goose-pimpled from cold and his board shorts flaring amusingly out around him under the water’s rippling surface. He’s lost his shirt, somewhere, and she smirks and flicks at his nipple. He frowns. He steps closer. He presses against her. There’s a surprising line of muscle on his stomach and she traces it down down down with a finger, like an arrow straight to the crooked tie on the top of his shorts.

She’s lost again. Can’t do anything but curl around him and feel nothing but the gentle slap of water against them. The others are gone and they’re alone and he smells like chorine, his eyes red from the water, his mouth and nose wet.

“What are we doing?” she asks, tracing her fingers over where his heart beats powerfully under a fragile bird-like ribcage. He’s all bones and skin and awkward smiles.

“Something reckless,” he answers simply, and kisses her hair. His fingers skim her sides, wrap around her. He turns them in the water as she folds her arms loosely over his shoulders for balance, hands trailing through his wet hair, and braces his back against the pool rim as she settles against him. He’s holding her like a child in the water, she’s lax against him, hugging with her mouth on his shoulder and his head turned into her neck. The water splashes. A bird calls nearby. Somewhere down by the lake, an outboard motor throbs loudly. And they breathe. Her legs hook around him, knees gripping his bony hips gently as the water bobs her against his body. A hand slips up and down her spine as he strokes her. Up, down, up, down. Up. Down. With the beat of the water… up, down, up down, and she closes her eyes and sighs into his warm skin. Tasting the chlorine there, she doesn’t realize she’s kissing him until he breathes a moan into her ear.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, and keeps going. Her turn to turn him on. She kisses and kisses and keeps rocking with the water. A slow, natural beat, picking up where they’d left off. He’s fractionally hardening against her, perfectly outlined in his board shorts. She rubs against him a little, just to get the feel of it, feels him twitch and rise a little at the gesture. “Let’s not make a mess of the pool.”

“Let’s,” he says, and cups her ass to drag her against him carefully. He’s not moving at all, just moving her. Rocking her against him with his breathing beginning to rasp in her ear and his heart beginning to skip a beat. “Theoretically. If we were to. Do you know how I’d do it?”

“No,” she admits, and melts down into his body. Just lets the pulse of arousal wash against her over and over and over, stronger with each wave, until it inevitably tears her from her moorings. “Tell me.”

Lips on her ear. He traces it with his tongue, draws it in. Hot and cold all at once. Nibbles. Continues that nibbling down her throat until he finds the junction of neck and shoulder and bites down hard, rocks up, the pressure cataclysmic. She rocks too, barks out a moan, fingernails scrabbling. It’s not slow for that second, but explosive, and everything inside her is _alive_. “Tell me,” she chokes out; she _needs_ to know.

“Right there,” he says, his voice _fucked_. “Right there. I’d have slipped into you right there.”

A throb. She throbs with that. From her face to her hips, she thumps as one and knows her lips are open and wanting. But he’s not done:

“Because you weren’t ready for it, were you? You were relaxed and aroused, but _gently_ so, and then suddenly I’d have been inside you. Feeling your shock. Feeling you drop from aroused to frantic, feeling you clenching around me.”

“Ah,” she says, some kind of agreement, and does just that. Feels her muscles following his coaxing. He hasn’t touched her, still holding her close, and she’s rippling with his words already.

“And then I’d take you apart,” he promises her, and leaves another mark on her skin with his mouth. She tries to breathe as he does so and just ends up gulping in more and more air with no way of exhaling under he lets her go. “Like this.” His hips bump up. “And again.” Once more. “I wouldn’t stop…” And he keeps going, small little rolls of his body against hers in a swaying, hypnotic rhythm that has her twitching in his grip at the idea that he’s imagining his cock in her with the movement. “Again and again and again until I lose the beat and quicken…” And he does seem a little lost at this point, breathless and possibly just doing it because it’s getting him off, so she reaches down and wraps her hand around that hard line, rubbing it through the material of his shorts. “Oh, _Em,_ ” he manages, head snapping up and eyes huge. “Oh, oh, _oh_.”

“You wouldn’t stop until you were coming inside me,” she tells him, and feels a shudder work from his chest against hers right down to his cock in her hand. “Deeply and gorgeously and unstoppably.”

“Inside you,” he finishes, and closes his eyes. “Em, stop. I’m… _stop_.”

She lets him go because she knows he doesn’t want to, but she can’t stop herself. She’s already on the edge and she wants to fall. “Help,” she manages, huddling close to him with her hips canted away so she can’t involuntarily rut against his straining dick. “Just a little…”

“Kiss me,” he demands, bringing his hands to her face and pulling her lips against his roughly. “Kiss me as you come.”

“Okay,” she chokes into his mouth, and swallows him down until she’s shaking, building, still building, spiralling, _coming._ Third time today and her body is stuttering and halting and takes forever to fling her down. It’s so slow, so painful, that she realizes she’s just sobbing and spluttering against him now as he rubs circles into her back and tells her that _you’re so good, so stunning, this is beautiful, Emily, so beautiful._ And when it’s done, he’s still kissing her, she thinks she might be crying a little, and she has no idea how to fucking walk anymore.

“You’re going to have to fucking _carry_ me from here,” she complains, and he just laughs a little shrilly. “How are you going to top _that_?”

“I have no idea,” he admits, and hugs her tight. “Absolutely no idea.”


	4. 8:55

“Nope,” she says, stepping into the bathroom and finding him naked and bouncing. It’s an amusing sight. She takes a moment to eye him up and down—pausing on a certain area just to make him squirm—and then looks past him to the bubble bath. He’d clearly been aiming for romantic and overshot into ‘Reid’, because there’s enough bubbles that if she sits in there, she’s going to be smothered. “You’re not getting me into that bath.”

He pouts. Scooping up a handful of bubbles, he continues pouting and shuffling a little and looking entirely like he’s spent the whole day not getting what he wants instead of getting absolutely everything he’s planned. Some fluffy candy-scent billows into the room as he flicks the bubbles around, and they _do_ have two hours to kill before dinner…

“Are you going to work yourself up again?” she teases.

“Almost certainly,” he replies pertly, and looks at the shower head. “Now, get in.”

Fuck.

They’ve rinsed the pool water from their bodies and hair back at the communal showers, so she just sighs and strips and clambers awkwardly in. Always the Vegas boy, he’s got the water far too hot and she gasps and takes forever to ease herself in. Like an otter, as soon as he’s got the go-ahead that they’re doing this, he’s delved into the stupidly small tub, all knees and legs, and is rubbing bubbles from his eyes before she’s even got her hips in.

There’s bubbles on his eyebrows, on his hair, and she giggles helplessly as he blinks all Santa-faced at her. Actually giggles. A fucking schoolgirl with a crush, he has her giddy. Judging by the way he beams back and proceeds to add a bubbly beard, he’s probably currently in the same mental-age boat.

Then, behind the water cascade of candy-soap, when he’s done adding bubble nipples to her chest and she’s done rolling her eyes at him, the silly smile vanishes. His hand on her chest, he scoots forward and his ass squeaks a little on the tub. She waits as he frowns, wipes half the bubbles from his chin with the back of one hand, and uses the other to fiddle with her dark, damp hair.

“Your brain is tangling,” she says, because she can see him overthinking himself into some complex corner. Hazel eyes flicker to her, he half shrugs, and she reaches for the soap and the sponge and coaxes him forward between her legs. It’s awkward and cramped; he has to turn sideways and hang his legs out the bath and over the side as he leans against her left thigh. His hand slips down to rest carefully on her thigh, but it lets her gently rub the soap into his overwarm skin. “What are you thinking about?” But she knows; he’s thinking about them.

He swallows loudly in the echoes of the small room and the movement shifts droplets of water from his throat to drip down his chest. She watches them go, and then it’s her turn to shuffle as close as she can get with her legs wrapped around him and follow those droplets with her sponge at first and then her mouth, kissing down that fragile chest.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, and it’s as loud and inevitable as she knew it would be. She pauses to breathe and swallow those words, and then brings her head up to meet the gaze he’s levelling on her. It’s intense, heady, wild, and there’s bubbles on his ear. “So… so much. I felt like I was bursting with it in the pool. Like I flipped a switch somewhere and suddenly it there was just too much to ignore, like you’d—”

“Become the only one I wanted to see,” she replies, and finds his mouth. They kiss awkwardly. They kiss forever. They kiss, and she ends it with, “I love you,” and then they just breathe.

What more can they say?

“Does this change us?” he asks when the water is tepid and the bubbles are gone and he’s had to wiggle around with his back to the taps and his front facing her, submerging his chilly legs back under the surface.

“Yes,” she says, because they’re more now. “But it was probably inevitable. Give me that—I’ve got soap in my hair.”

He smirks and hooks the shower head down, gesturing for her to duck as he runs a slow stream of warm water over her scalp. His fingers follow the water. Warm water, massaging fingers through her hair, and she shivers and tugs her knees up against her chest to support the thrill that skitters down her spine at the sensation. “I’d like to be more,” he tells her quietly, his voice a deep hum. “When we go home…”

“Really?” she asks. His hand is on her hip, easing her around. He gets her to turn her back to him and then lays his legs flat and coaxes her up onto his lap as he replies, leaning back lax against him with a soft sigh of comfort. “Tell me what you want.”

The water patters on the bath as he readjusts her more firmly on his bare lap, their skin slick and slippery under the water. Then it’s back, still warm and soothing and he uses that to rinse her hair and her skin from the bubbles he’s plied them both with. She closes her eyes and fantasizes quietly about doing the same to him as soon as he’s finished melting her with gentle touches.

“We’ve been essentially dating for almost a year,” he says. “Sleepovers, dinners, movie nights…”

“Booty calls,” she teases him, and he snorts and turns the tap to cold. She squeaks and wiggles with a gasp as the stream on her back turns icy, even as he turns it off with a dark chuckle. Warm hands smooth the chilled skin; he kisses her back and his touch is searing.

“Booty calls where some nights we didn’t have sex,” he says. His hands slide around her, wet from the water. Unlike her back, her front is still warm from the previous temperature; when he cups her breast in one of his hands, his touch is uncomfortably cold and she hisses a little at the contrast. “Where we’d have terrible food and watch terrible movies…”

“And sleep on the floor and feel like crap in the morning,” she manages, knocking his hand away from the showerhead he’s proven he can’t be trusted with.

“Waking in your arms with all the blankets gone, the sun on our legs through the window,” he murmurs against her back. Despite her attempt, he’s stolen the showerhead. Hands vanishing for a moment as he fiddles with it and tests the temp, and then it’s back. Cool enough that it makes the tepid water around them feel hot still, and she can’t tell if she’s hot, cold, in-between. He runs the water over her chest, her shoulders, pulling her back tight against his body as she shivers and curls inward. “Waking with you in my arms… asleep and naked and completely trusting.”

She gasps as he seems to forget himself and lets his hand droop into the water, sending an icy bubbling jet along her thigh. And she gasps as his words hit home. “You’ve loved me for a while,” she accuses him, because he’s kissing her back again in a learned pattern, like he’s memorized the shape of her body.

“So long,” he agrees. “It feels like forever. I want this, Em. I want you looking at me like you did in the pool. I want you coming home with me, to our home. I want to tell people I’m yours. I want…” He pauses a little, and there’s nothing accidental about him brings the stream up and up her thigh until she’s wiggling and whimpering and it’s a steady, rhythmic pressure against her clit. Cold, too cold, and his other hand is a sporadic hot presence sneaking in and cutting the pressure off as it slips between her and the water and rubs against her. “… _you_.”

“I feel like we should have, ah, done this _without_ the you, oh…” And she has to stop to gasp because he’s turned the water to barely warm but it feels scalding but in the best kind of way and she wants more and less and everything all at once. His finger dips, his palm cupping her, she bucks against him and back. Accidentally slipping against his body as she does so—she’d forgotten she was in his lap, somehow, so focused on his hands and the water—and he’s half hard under her and there’s no way to avoid rocking against that.

And then his fingers are in her and his mouth is puffing hot bursts of air against her shoulder and the pressure is still steady and unescapable from the water. She feels cradled, swallowed, locked in his grasp against his firm body, and gives in and just twists a little, gratified as it brings his cock up to rub against her.

“Spence,” she squeaks, fucking sick, almost, of this rising pressure and the throbbing warmth, and then decides that she should probably regain some goddamn agency in this madcap plan of his. It’s the work of a heartbeat to reach down and slide her fingers around his dick, pushing him up between her thighs and against the throbbing heat of her body, wrapping around him and rocking her hips in an uncertain beat. The yelped moan he spits out is explosive, and she feels him arch and almost sob into her grasp, thickening against her palm. “Oops.”

“I—” he wheezes, and he’s dropped the showerhead and slipped his fingers out and instead he’s digging his nails into her thighs, seemingly frozen between encouraging this and needing it to stop.

She strokes. He moans with the movement and bows over her, body slick and wet and shuddering. She strokes again and nudges the firm head against her entrance, knowing he can feel the slick, welcoming warmth waiting for him there if he wasn’t so damn cocky. And she strokes him again, but this time with her body, feeling every line and ridge of his dick with her cunt as she rubs against him.

“Em,” he begs, grip so tight now she knows there’ll be marks. “I… _fuck_.”

“Hang on,” she teases, and he does. With his teeth. Finds the line of her shoulder and bites down with a stifled moan. She pushes him tight against her cunt and lets go, curling her fingers down to trace his balls, to feel them tensing against the gentle touch of her fingers. He’s so close. So deliciously close. “You okay there, bucko?”

“I’m going to—” he manages, and then brushes his face against her back with a groan, his lashes flickering against her skin as he tries to breath and moans instead. “Emily, stop, I’m going to come…”

“Well,” she murmurs softly, and rubs her body along his. “You have hours to recover before my birthday… maybe you _should_ … your turn, love, it’s your turn to feel wonderful…”

“Already do around you,” he replies, but begins to roll his hips. Giving in. He’s giving in to her, and it’s glorious. “You called me… _ah_ … _love_ …” Voice breathy and lost, she feels him begin to slip into the unstoppable, using his hands to move her against him frantically.

“My love,” she confirms, and twists painfully to face him. His face, oh his expression, she’s lost for a moment in the way he looks at her as he tries to kiss her and has to stop to gasp instead. She kisses him instead.

“Yours,” he repeats blankly, and bumps up. Cock slipping against her, slipping minutely into her. _Oh, fuck_ , she thinks and moans, canting her hips down so when he does it again he almost pushes deliberately in. He’s forgotten. He’s lost. He just wants to fuck her and the idea is _wonderful._ “Yes, yes, _yesyesyes_ ,” he chants, and finally pushes in. Slowly as he stalls, stutters, eyes flicking wide and then shuttering closed, his mouth moving silently as he keeps opening her and…

_Thump!_ “Oi!” hollers a voice outside the cabin door. Spencer jerks out of her and away and slams his shoulder into the tap with a strangled choking noise, Emily shooting upright onto her feet and almost toppling out of the bath as she wildly remembers her gun, home in the gun safe. “You two, get out here! Garcia brought some humanity card game thing she wants to play—we’re waiting on you! Why aren’t you answering your phones?”

Rossi.

Fucking _Rossi_.

“Be out in a second,” she shouts, and hopes her voice doesn’t sound as fucked out as it sounds to her. She’s shivering, still tense and worked up, her body confused as it tries to work out what the fuck just happened. Looking down at Spencer, he’s not doing much better. Gritting his teeth with his shoulder bowed forward and hand cupped over a spreading red mark that’s going to leave a nasty bruise.

Yeah. Mood broken.

“Wash your hands before you come out,” Rossi calls after a beat. “I don’t want to know where you’ve been.”

“I’m going to shoot him,” moans Spencer, and flops into the water with a sad _splat_. “I’m actually going to shoot him.”

She pats him gently and steps out of the tub, reaching for a towel. “Ah well, you had to fail at least one,” she reassures, grabbing his as well as he follows her, still rubbing his shoulder. He’s taller than her, but she still wraps the towel around his shoulders and steps against him, into his arms, so she can kiss him. “Now come on, before he ends up joining us.”

It’s almost amusing how fast he bolts for his clothes, skidding into the doorframe on the way out.

Almost.


	5. 4:12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Kids, don't try this at home with your team of federally trained profilers.
> 
> .... _they will know._

Her phone hums at dinner and it’s a good distraction from the memory of JJ picking up the Cards Against Humanity card—Australian edition, for some reason—and asking, with her pretty nose scrunched up in confusion, “What’s a soggy sao?”

Well, it wasn’t really that memory that Emily was trying to block.

It was Hotch opening his mouth to answer.

She checks it and it’s a text from Garcia: _what are you and the melodious masterbrain there up to?_ The masterbrain himself is snuggled against Emily’s side, clearly having given up on being _subtle_ , and is carrying out a heated and engaging conversation about pygmy goats with Hotch across the table. The table they’re on is long, they’re spread out in bunches along it, and Emily and Reid scored the side with their backs against the wall. It doesn’t _quite_ hide that they’re pressed close enough together that they could probably function on just the one heart, but Emily blames the wine.

It’s totally the wine’s fault. It’s red and she’s always messy on a nice red. Especially three, four… however many glasses in she is. Judging from the glassy sheen to Spencer’s eyes, he’s running about as well as she is. But still weirdly on top of the pygmy goat debate.

_I don’t know what you’re talking about,_ she sends back, thankful for autocorrect. The reply is immediate.

_Bullpoop. You and him have been doing the nasty in various places ALL day. We have bets on where you haven’t soiled. I know I’m winning._

Emily blinks. Considers telling Spencer. Considers that maybe he’ll ask all the wrong questions if she does—like who has those bets, how much those bets are, whether they can get in on this like some kind of kink bingo…

_Are you implying I’m having relations with boy genius?_

_I’m implying you’re banging boy genius backwards, sideways, upside-down and probably in a library, knowing him. Also, I’m the only one who has you guys down as having gotten it on in the pool. H. was SURE S. wouldn’t risk the germs._

Well, fuck.

Emily decides that silence is the better part of valour and deigns not to respond. Mostly because she’s flushing a bright red; also, because every single one of her nerves has just attempted to light up and rocket out of the top of her head from shock as a hand slips up her bare thigh.

“Ow,” Spencer says as her elbow says hi to his ribs. “ _Why_?”

“Touching,” she hisses, glad that Hotch is busy scowling at Dave up the table for flirting with a waitress, and also very aware that the summery dress she’s wearing with the thin cardigan over the top is adorable, attractive, shows her tits off nicely, but also doesn’t stop that creeping hand from realizing that she’s not wearing underwear if it creeps any further. “At the _dinner_ table.”

“No one can see,” he murmurs. His voice low enough that she’s _sure_ no one can hear it, but every hair on her body is standing on end anyway. “Say the word and I’ll stop, but I promise, _I_ won’t give the game away.”

He won’t either, damn him. He’s apparently watching some documentary on the plasma across the room, his expression vacantly distracted and a little drunk, and not a muscle twitches on the shoulder of the arm he’s accosting her with. Moving slow and steady enough that the only way someone will notice is if they lean over and stare down into her lap. Or if she keeps blushing a hot red; she has no idea what he’s planning but she can _guess_. And it’s fucking kinky, it’s fucking _rude_ , but damn if she hasn’t gotten herself off in the past imagining something just like it. It’s a kink and he’s playing her like he plays a poker table. Expertly, knowing all her tricks and expecting to walk away richer.

Fingers fiddle with the hem of her dress. She squeaks and covers it by reaching out to gulp down more wine. “Easy there,” Hotch says, glancing at her. “That won’t come out if you spill it.”

A smile on her face she knows is ghastly, as Spencer says, “Hotch, did the review of the Atkins case ever come through?” just as his fingers finish their tramp up her leg and touch, so gently, against a curl. Stroking, just the one finger, and doing nothing else. She twitches with every touch and worries about whether there’s going to be a damp patch on her dress.

“If you get cold on the way out, wear my coat,” Spencer says suddenly, his voice a rumble, and nods to the long peacoat he’d brought in on one arm. She’d thought it was odd, too heavy for this only slightly cool night, but now she’s swearing at him in her head again. This was planned, the little shit, and she’s already amped from before. He keeps stroking, just that one maddening finger, and Emily suddenly has to focus as JJ leans on the table to their left a bit and starts chattering about some TV show.

Time ticks forward. Slowly. Tick tick tick, and every tick is another slow touch, until she can feel each stroke pulling forth a new flush of wet from deep within her. The skin under his finger is heating, her arms goose-pimpled and her heart skittering, and she feels damp and humid and uncomfortably warm. That finger is starting to feel slick as well as it keeps up the painful touching; as though her body is trying to scream _look how fucking horny I am right now, how wet for Spencer fucking Reid_. And all he’s using is a finger.

The conversation shifts. Budgets. They’re talking about budgets and dessert is brought out. Spencer declined and she’d thought that was strange, but the lights are being dimmed around them and he nestles slightly into her shoulder. She eats her ice cream without tasting a damn thing, finishes another glass of wine, and then curls a hand around his bicep and digs her nails in a little. Just to remind him she’s feeling.

The finger moves and she knocks her glass over. Calls of _taxi_ ring out along with laughs as she dabs at the small puddle of wine and hopes she’s not giving the game away with her stammering apologies. Rossi looks at her oddly and she grins back dizzily, as the finger slips down her hot centre and dips in as though he can taste her through the rough-soft skin. Spencer yawns wide enough that his jaw clicks, talking a little too loud as though the wine has finally slowed down his brain, and he’s talking to Morgan about their plans for the night—thankfully, she notes, trying to get them _out_ of the karaoke hour. And as he’s talking, his finger is delving knuckle deep, so fucking slowly, and he’s adding another.

Her spoon drips. “Your ice cream is melting,” he tells her seriously, looking a little sad, so she moves it over to his mouth. Stupid. It’s stupid and she’s not sure why, everyone knows, but he takes it slowly and moves his finger along with the shift of his mouth along the spoon, his eyes never leaving hers.

She clenches around him in a ripple of over-stimulated muscles she can feel in her core.

He adds another finger.

She eats another spoonful. Her spoon scrapes on the bowl. Someone says something to her and she non-committedly agrees and then wonders what she’s just put her hand up for. Thankfully, Hotch just smiles warmly at her and continues talking to JJ, clearly certain that she’s drunk herself under the table and willing to let her fight the wine off for a bit before increasing the cognitive load. There are fingers moving in a glacially slow pull inside her and she tightens her legs around him, hears him breathe out softly through his teeth. Does it again. Fumbles her napkin onto his lap and picks it up with a chuckle just to skim his pants and see if this is turning him on. It is. If she holds her breath and _listens_ , past her hammering heart and the fear of discovery, she swears that she can hear the wet sound of him shifting his wrist and his fingers moving. Because she’s stupidly wet, stupidly turned on, and she knows she’s making a mess of the ass of her dress as it drips out of her.

But, weirdly, she’s also oddly sure that no one has a clue. There’s not a single curious glance, not one raised eyebrow, and when the thumb presses to her clit and begins to play its own rhythm, she feels safe enough to let it. And let it she does.

It takes him almost twenty minutes and she’s turned on to the point of pain before he brings her relief. Working her up and easing her down. He edges her like a champ and she knows she’s flushed and barely hiding her fucked up breathing.

He leans closer. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, glancing at Rossi out of the corner of his eyes. He wearing his glasses. She wants to kiss him. He’s wearing a nice dress shirt with a purple tie. She wants to grab that tie and drag him to the bedroom and fuck him until he’s sobbing for release. “You look completely composed.”

Does she? She doesn’t _feel_ composed. She feels strung out, frustrated, hurting, frantic. She feels like she can’t do anything but focus on those fucking fingers taking her apart without respite. He slips them out sometimes, probably to rest his wrist from the painful angle, but this only makes it worse when he returns them. She’s pretty sure she’s come two times, tiny mini-orgasms that left her voiceless and thin, but she doesn’t even know anymore. Can’t tell what parts of her are sparking up and what parts of calming down, just that she was wrong when she’d joked about him being putty under her hands.

She’s his, completely, in this moment, and anything he asked of her she’d give it. Her brain is twisted, throwing up wild fantasies that she knows she’d never think of except in the darkest hours of the night or here when it’s utterly focused on her arousal: taking him onto the porch out the front and sucking him off on the stairs with his sticky fingers cupped around her jaw; kissing him right here with her hand wrapped around his cock until he gave into the sheer agony of it and pulsed into her hands; barely waiting until all the patrons and staff left and then sinking down onto him right here, his cock replacing the fingers and both of them coming on this polished wooden floor. Bizarrely, she flicks a glance at Hotch and thinks of him coming back to check on them, watching them, his dark eyes diluted and his sensible clothes barely disguising the broken line of his pants.

Oh fuck.

The mental image of that has her fluttering around him, muscles gathering and pulling to draw those filthy fingers deeper, and she’s tumbling. Her cell hums as the slowest fucking orgasm of her life begins, and she reaches for it with a shaking hand.

The fuck.

What the fuck.

“How are you… texting?” she chokes out in a low husk, and he uses the hand holding his cell to nudge the glass towards her as the other hand slips out and cups her, a hot pressure that she can push her hips up gently into without shifting her upper body. She takes a drink that burns. Checks her cell again. Has to check it three times to parse it as he circles his thumb around her clit and leaves her on the cusp, the very edge, not enough to slip over.

_I felt you get wetter then. What were you thinking about? Tell me._

Oh fuck. Her brain is scattering, just shouting random words of shock and desire at her. Maybe that’s why she does it. In this moment, she’s not smart, she’s not witty, she’s just helplessly turned on and desperate to come.

_Fucking you right here. Now._

He rumbles a startled laugh. The others are half talking, half watching Morgan try to get the bartender’s phone number. She’s not giving it up. _Boop_ says her cell, humming in her hand, and she looks at it through half-closed eyes.

_With everyone watching? Saucy._

She’s not thinking. She responds: _Just Hotch_ and then immediately regrets it. What man would _want_ to hear that as he fingers his girlfriend?

But he pauses, freezes, and she hears him breathe a shocked, “Holy fuck.” And then he keeps moving, his hand, moving, _faster._ Exactly what she needs and she wiggles a little. He turns to her to hide the shift of his arm moving, presses his thumb down _hard_ on her clit, and rumbles right into her ear, “Do you have any idea how arousing that is?”

She does.

She comes. Silently and without giving the game away, and only him and his fingers deep inside her know. He stays inside her as the ripples fade and her muscles stop twitching and he stays inside her as her heartbeat slows, and finally she looks at him and realizes he’s the one dangerously aroused.

She’s a little pissed that he has this much power over her, so instead of being kind she wiggles in the damp patch and murmurs, “Four hours, twelve minutes.”

He swears.


	6. 1:32

They’re drunk. That’s dangerous. He’s handsy when sober, when drunk, he gravitates to her; an ant to her honey. If there was any hesitation left in their friends’ minds, there isn’t now—he not only can’t stop touching her, but he does so with an awed kind of expression like he expects her to shatter under his clumsy fingers. When the fire in the bonfire pit they’ve gathered around to chase away the early autumn evening chill spits up sparks onto her sweater, he smooths his hands over the seared bits and smiles giddily. When she accidentally tips her head a little bit too far back while drinking a beer and spills it out the corner of her mouth, he catches it with his finger and then cups her jaw and just _leans_ against her like a contented racehorse.

When the sun begins to go down and they watch the fading light of day dip the tips of the pines in gold, he kisses her. Gently at first and then with a longing kind of feeling; swaying drunkenly against her with his heart hammering a drumbeat against her chest. And she feels, under his hands splayed on her back, drunk and loved and valuable and breakable and strong and infinite all at once.

When they break apart, his eyes are closed, his breathing slow, and everyone is looking at them. No one whistles and JJ is blushing. And no one mentions it because it was something special and probably far too personal to have shown them just yet.

But she suspects they’re doing a lot more with their feelings now than just fucking their way through them.

She manages to stumble away from him, feeling cold and exposed as she makes her way to the cooler for another drink. He’s singing drunkenly with Morgan to the thump of the stereo, it’s almost midnight, they’re all running on the tail end of a holiday high. And she can’t take her eyes away from him; even when she does, she’s vividly aware of where he is, how far he is, his eyes on her. None of that is good. All of it is a little bit like falling in love, or maybe she’s been falling a while and this is the impact.

“Prentiss.” It’s Hotch, on the outskirts with a beer in his hand and only his eyes betraying how many he’s had. “How are you?”

“Drunk,” she says, and holds up the beer bottles she’s wrestled out of the cooler like they’re her prizes for walking oh so far without falling on her ass. “And a bit silly, sorry. Sir.” She doesn’t know why she said sir, or why she’s rambling, or why she’s blushing, except that Spencer laughs loudly and she turns to look without thinking twice. Her heart is on show and she’s vulnerable.

“I didn’t realize you two were…” Hotch begins, and stops. Rossi is walking up, still steady on his feet despite trying to drink Morgan under the table. “Dave.”

Rossi doesn’t reply, just takes two more steps until he’s next to Emily and tugging her into a gentle, cautious kind of hug. Beery breath on her cheek and his lips brushing her skin, he murmurs, “I’m happy for you, sweetheart,” and lets her go. “It’s a precious thing, to love intently.”

She doesn’t know what to say. Hotch is silent too. And then he nods, and takes Rossi’s arm, and leads him away. They’ll probably totter off to bed soon, under some pretence of being older than the rest of them, but also a little because they want the team to relax and it’s hard to do that with the bosses hanging overhead. Even if those bosses just wished her well with her quest to claim a younger team member, heart and body and soul and all.

That’s a weird/heavy realization, and she manages to weave her way back to the fireside and the Spencer with beer and a feeling like something big is happening.

She’s right. Hotch and Rossi vanish. Morgan and Garcia cuddle up on one side of the fire with a blanket and an iPad, watching movies with one set of earphones between the two of them. JJ falls asleep with her own blanket and Will on Facetime with her. Emily smiles, waves goodbye to the chuckling Will, and hangs up for her friend before tucking the blanket more snuggly around her shoulders. It’s a short stagger around the fire to find Spencer curled in his own blanket, hidden from the others by the popping yellow blaze, and he opens his arms in an invitation that she can’t resist.

And then they’re cuddled together, laying on their sides by the fire, his arms around her and the blanket around them both, staring into the heart of the fire with the night creeping timelessly around them. Emily is drunk. Warm. Sleepy. Content. She hums and presses her back against his chest, feeling his legs hook over hers as he nestles close, his lips on the back of her neck. And they stay like that. Just breathing and being and falling in love.

She’s almost asleep when his breathing shifts slightly, and he kisses her shoulder. Once. Twice. Nips, and she twitches. The kisses turn hot, hungry; she wriggles against his body. Their heartbeats quicken and she can’t believe he’s going to do this to her. _Again_. She’s almost lost count. Too drunk to count. Drunk enough that the last thing she wants to discourage him, but also drunk enough that she’s limp in his arms just letting him do as he pleases.

“You smell like smoke,” he murmurs, trailing his lips in a line up the side of her neck and nuzzling her ear. Sucking the lobe in gently, tongue tracing the outside, he blows a hot breath, adds, “Your pulse is racing,” and pulls away to leave the skin rippled and cold.

“You’re turning me on,” she says bluntly, rocking her hips almost instinctually back. They’re so tight under the blanket that it’s a minute move, impossible to see unless someone was standing directly above them looking down, “You know damn well what you’re doing.”

Another line of slow kisses, and a hand creeps up her sweater and shirt to cup her breast. She’s glad she snuck the bra off as soon as the sun went down. A thumb traces her nipple in tedious, teasing circles. She can feel it hardening against his skin and he waits until its firm before slipping that thumb to the other, his other hand warm and splayed under her shirt on her belly. A coaxing undoing, and she’s putty under his hands.

“Still aroused?” he asks in a low hum, and she nods sluggishly. Shifts, feeling a ripple of warmth and wet working between her hips. It’s different now. Her body on the crux all day, it’s slow and volcanic and building leisurely. “Still wet?”

“See for yourself,” she challenges, turning her head towards him and getting a sloppily awkward kiss on the corner of her mouth for her trouble. His hands skim down, away from her breasts and her belly to undo the pants she’d replaced her dress with. Without shame, he slides them down her hips and she lifts and little and helps him until she can kick them all the way off. Those hands return, to rest against her pelvic bone, and she hears his breath hitch when he realizes she’s completely bare from the waist down. It’s saucy. Morgan and Garcia are barely eight feet away, JJ sleeping beside them. But she’s pulsing and building and so, so wet she can’t think, feeling a trickle of something working across her thigh. There’ll be a damp spot under them, and he hasn’t even touched her yet.

And then he does. One finger and he gasps.

“How are you _so_ wet,” he breathes, that finger sliding along her and coming away slick. She could tell him the obvious—he’s had her going for the last fourteen hours—but instead she’s silent and just shivers down onto that long digit, hoping he’s going to touch her, refusing to beg for it.

A sedate rustle of movement; his hand moves away. He moves away too, without leaving the blanket, and she whines with the loss. And then he’s back. All hands, all heat and a pressing mouth against her jaw, and then he settles back close and _oh_ he’s bare to her and gorgeously hard. Still in his shirt and sweater, he’s lost his pants and kept his socks and his cock slips perfectly between her legs to glide through the wet and seat itself so tight against her she could get herself off just by squeezing her legs around him. Him too, probably, judging by the almost painful rigidness of it. One wrong move by either of them and he’ll go off like a rocket. She almost wants him too, could also probably get herself off by just imagining how pliable he’s going to be when he finally comes.

“This is dumb,” she breathes, and reaches down between her legs to touch him. To smooth her fingers over the velvet skin, to push him up and rock down, to feel every line and ridge of him pushing smoothly against her cunt. “There’s no way this isn’t going to end in sex.” They’re talking softly and it’s making their voices stupid, breathless, and his breathing behind her is _fucked_ , completely fucked.

“Self-control,” he manages, and rolls his hips gently. Oh oh oh, along her he glides with a soft noise. Back and forward against her he sways before nestling close and mewling, fucking _mewling_ , the tip of his dick brushing her leg and leaving a streak of pre-come behind. “And I had to touch you. I had to. It’s all I can think about. This. You, like this, me with you. Oh, Emily, _ah_ …” and self-control her ass, he’s going to get himself off just by _talking_.

“Keep going,” she asks him, slipping her hand up to brush against her clit. She shouldn’t. She must. Her eyes locked on the fire, every sense alive for discovery, he presses his lips against the bumps of her spine and rasps as he sways again. And again.

And says, “Can you come like this? So I can feel you?”

A nod. She can. She wants to. Anything for him. Anything. She nods again, clutching, rippling. Trying to stave off what she can feel, her fingers moving carefully and quickly, her hips skipping to his beat. “Trying.”

A gasp. A moan, stifled into her skin. “You’re touching yourself,” he whispers, awed, “that’s stunning. You’re stunning. I want to…” He brings his hand around and settles it over hers lightly, “… feel you doing that, please, show me.” She does, almost sagging back against him. It puts her at a different angle, one he’s not ready for, and almost like he can’t control it anymore, his hips bump forward. Along her his cock slides, along along and then he fucks up and the tip slides in. So slightly in but enough. He stalls. Moans. Rocks so, so slightly further in. She forgets to breathe and focuses completely on the head of his cock pushing her open, her mouth slack and mind a blank.

“Spence,” she manages, and he’s frozen now. Stopped barely an inch inside her and he’s holding his breath. Her hand is stopped too, everything stopped, both too cautious to move.

“I could do it,” he says distantly, his voice husky and _lost_. “If you want.”

“You could,” she replies, and _oh fuck he could_ and she can imagine it perfectly. “You could fuck me right now, Spence.”

“Right now,” he repeats, and slips in a heartbeat more. “So easily…” She can feel him aching. He’s practically pulsing behind her, hot and sweaty and frantic to fuck. His dick jolts against her, impossibly hard and still somehow getting harder, and she’s sure it must be hurting him by now.

“Do it,” she tells him, squeezing her legs tight for a second before relaxing again, just to feel a moan try to squeeze out of him at the move. “Just slide in, Spence, please. Just do it. It’d be _so_ easy, so good…”

“So good,” he repeats blankly, pulling out and she almost cries with the loss, before pushing back in, barely as far as before. “I’ll come. You’re so wet, so good. I’ll come immediately. I almost did before, in the bath. Was so lost in it. So ready…” She throbs at the words, her heart skipping and pulse slamming. If he does that again, she’s gone, she can’t think of what that will feel like when he’s talking like that, in that voice like he _needs_ to come. Like his big complicated brain has shut down and redirected all 187 IQ points down to the cock that’s hot and hard and adding so minutely to the mess between her legs already.

“Just fuck me,” she chokes out, closing her eyes and pushing down the volcanic feeling fizzling and bubbling down her spine towards her hips. “ _Spence_.”

“Yes,” he breathes. “ _Yes_ ,” and slips in so slowly, with a whimpered, skipping kind of _oh oh oh_ and she can feel him throbbing and _fuck_.

_Fuck._

“You’re coming already,” she moans, and he pulls out with a strangled whine and a shudder, suddenly rocking _hard_ against her, thrusting with short, stuttering jabs between her legs, freezing, tensing, his arms rigid and muscles cording around her. He’s coming, but he’s not, and she reaches down to his cock and finds it still hard, his body still shaking.

“I can’t,” he stutters, twitching in her grip, “I can’t, I am, I’m still, _oh_ ,” and he’s fucked. She rolls in the blanket and kisses him greedily as he tries to find whatever sanity he just lost, still hard, still shaking, and she’s pretty sure he just came without actually coming and _holy fuck that’s hot._

“Self-control,” she squeaks, feeling him twitch between her legs again, and then she’s rubbing along him, desperate, frantic, thankful for his shoulder to stifle her mouth again, thankful for the crackle and pop of the bonfire, until it’s her turn to hurtle to some impossible end against him, coming undone slowly and catastrophically until her brain whites out and she forgets to _think_ for a good long moment. And when she does, she slurs: “What the fuck was that, Spencer Reid?” with a voice that sounds as drunk as she feels.

But, for once, he’s speechless. Just shakes his head and slumps against her, his eyes prettily hooded and his body sticky-hot. And then he kisses her. A gentle brush of lips that says _everything_ , somehow.

“Come to the cabin,” he says, and she thrills in his arms. “I want to wake up next to you.”

“Yes,” she says, pulling the blanket tighter and huddling close. “Let my legs remember how to walk, and we’ll go. We’ll go.”

Because she can see something on his lips, words almost spoken. She’s worried they’re dancing on hers too.

She wants to be alone when they say them.


	7. 0:00

They’re both pretending they’re not watching the clock. A single flickering candle lights the nest of blankets and pillows they’ve made in the middle of the bed, huddled down inside it and closing out the outside world, a documentary he picked playing on the iPad propped against the headboard. About pandas. The irony is there, but she refuses to point it out.

They’re still drunk. It’s a weird feeling, but she’s aching and hollow, desperate for that clock to hit twelve. Exhausted by the day and at the same time _driven_ by it. And there’s forty minutes to go until it finally ticks over, and she’s feeling every minute.

She pads to the bathroom at one point, clad in men’s boxers and one of his daggier shirts. Does what she has to in there and pauses in the doorway, watching the candlelight flicker across his frame from within the nest of blankets. His eyes are sleepy-focused, his hair adorably tussled, and she’s helplessly fucking head over heels.

“I love you,” she says because she’s _allowed_ now, and sees him visibly shiver, craning his neck back to look at her. He’s wearing flannel pyjamas under the blanket, a deep emerald green and weirdly stunning on his frame. Biased she may be, since she’s pretty sure she’d still fuck him right now if he was wearing nothing but ugg boots and a woman’s thong, they’re _very_ cute.

“You have no idea how thrilling it is to hear you say that,” he replies quietly. “Do you know the math behind us meeting?” She shakes her head, bracing for something incredibly dorky. “It’s infinitesimal… that we should meet, that we should be compatible, that we should both feel the same, at the same time, in the same place… that you should be so utterly, outrageously attractive in every possible way, inside and out…”

“Sap,” she says, and can’t help but close her eyes and savour those words. Looking down to hide the blush, she spots his bag.

They have forty minutes left. He can be a sap on her birthday.

It’s time for _revenge._

When she slides back into the blankets with him, he hums contentedly and turns to face her, letting himself be drawn into a damp, cautious kiss. Lips shifting together slowly, eyes closed, hearts racing; they draw each other in and away, hands roaming, learning, loving. Kissing gently at first until it quickens, her tongue joining the battle as she slips it between his lips and lays claim to him as hers. Rougher now. She pushes him back with her hands on his flannel-covered chest, and he lets himself be shoved down with a groan as she straddles him with the only points of contact being her knees on his hips and her hands on his chest. Those hands that she slides up up up to his jaw, drawing him up into a kiss that lingers and lingers and lingers until neither are breathing and the moment is frozen. When they slip apart, they both gasp for air. And then dive in again, so willing to drown in the other. One of his fingers fumbles with the top buttons of her shirt. While he’s clumsily busy with that, she sinks down onto his lap and the straining heat she can feel there.

She’s bare. She kept the shirt, lost the boxers, and it takes two seconds of rubbing down against him for him to realizing not all of the spreading damp on the green flannel is from him. “Oh,” he says, eyes huge, and begins a steady slide across her. “Oh, you feel _gorgeous_.”

“Keep the pants on,” she warns him, rolling her hips around and down and settling down into his lap as she keeps kissing him. “Or you won’t make it to midnight.”

Time vanishes as they kiss. When she pulls away slightly and sits up to stare down at him sprawled on the bed, beautifully pliant, they both turn their gazes to where their hips are rocking together. There’s a spreading dark stain on his pyjamas as they push so tight together it’s like they’re trying to fuck _through_ his pants. He makes a questioning _ah_ noise at the sight, his expression enraptured, and reaches down with trembling fingers to lift his shirt front away and greedily watch what it looks like as he strains against her. At the slick mess she’s leaving on his front. At the promise of what’s to come.

The candle is almost burned out, the movie forgotten. While he’s trapped in a fantasy of fucking her, she moans slowly for good measure and then runs her hands down his sides. Trailing up under the pyjamas top and onto his ribs. Trailing out as he trembles and makes a noise almost like he’s keening, shrill and long, and her hand sneaks to the side and comes back armed with what she’d hidden in the blankets on her return.

“Oh fuck,” he says, but there’s a giddy smile on his face. “Miss _Prentiss_.”

“That’s _ma’am_ to you,” she teases, and turns the vibrator on. She can’t touch him with it. She _wants_ to, just to see his expression, but she’s pretty sure he won’t last ten seconds beyond that and she swears he’s going to fuck her tonight. But she runs it up his chest and chuckles as he whimpers and bucks and tries to wiggle away. Runs it along the line of his pelvic bone and has to breathe a little as his hips cant hungrily up into hers.

Presses it to her own clit in a teasing touch that he makes a noise like a growl at and surges up to kiss her. Fingers through her hair and yanking her down into him, the vibrator hits the bed as they roll and tumble in the sheets. He rolls her with a gasp, mouthing at her lips, rutting against her leg, laying his weight on her for a second with his hands gripping hers. She arches under him, the partially open top spilling apart to reveal her breasts that he ducks down to kiss reverently, lips brushing each nipple in turn and coaxing them to points.

“I changed my mind,” she hisses, reaching a hand to grab a handful of his ass and drag him against her. The vibrator is humming to the side and she has a brief battle for it with him that he loses, staring at it with dark, dark eyes and an almost bitten through lip. “No ma’am. No Miss Prentiss. Fuck that.”

He snorts. “Running out of options,” he teases, “unless you want me to call you Mrs. Prentiss in bed?”

She whimpers. Too much. But yes. And his eyes get bigger, impossibly big, until he’s more cartoon than man. She actually feels his erection flag with the shock.

“Not yet,” she says, “not during sex, _Jesus_. Not anytime soon. But one day. Yes. Please, ask me. Or I’ll ask you and I’ll do it front of _Rossi_.”

“Yes,” he says, and repeats it breathily. “ _Yes_.” And he shifts the wrist she’s holding with the vibrator and glances desperately at the clock. Twelve minutes. Their mouths are sore from kissing. “Use it. On yourself. As I watch. Please. Please, I want to see, please.”

She can’t deny him. Not after everything he’s given her. She uses it expertly, carefully, teasing herself to the very edges of her reserves and then pushing it inside herself as he watches. Fucking herself with it but it’s not what she wants, the vibrations setting her nerves to jangling, too cold, too artificial.

When she pulls it out and lets it fall without a word, reaching for him, he doesn’t deny her. There’s six minutes left till midnight.

“Please,” she asks him, hooking her thumbs over his waistband and tugging them down until he bounces free, bare and heavy and almost painfully swollen looking. Something inside her beats once, hard, and burns hungrily at the idea that’s going to soon be inside her. That he’s going to be. “Please,” she asks again, as he settles against her body, pulling her close. Skin to skin from chest to ankles, wound so tightly against each other they’re almost one being made of sweat and ragged breathing and scratching hands. “Please,” she says once more, five minutes on the clock, and he sighs her name and guides himself into her.

Excruciatingly slowly, he presses in. Her entire body tenses with the shock/anticipation of it, pushing back at him for a painful moment until she realizes he’s doing it, he’s in, he’s holding her and kissing her and finally about to fuck her, and then she relaxes with one loud exhale of air and he pushes inside with a single snap of his hips.

Oh. _Oh_. It hurts. He’s so deep so fast, it hurts, and she cries out because she wants more and she cries out because she wants _less_ and then she lifts her legs and wraps them around him and uses them to pull him deeper still. He makes a strangled noise that turns into a moan that’s loud enough that she feels it rumble into her chest, low and deep and _desperate_ , and then he’s moving in her with deep, erratic thrusts that split her open and leave her bare. She tries to kiss him and she can’t, too shaken by the force of their movements, too desperate to scrabble any part of him closer that she can. He’s doing the same. Her nails bite into his shoulders; his snarl at her hips and leave furrows that will bleed and mark and leave spots on the sheets. She chokes at the feeling, bites on her lip, tastes copper. Now he kisses her. Taking her ruined lip and the sharp stab of pain that follows, he kisses her and keeps fucking her until he’s not really breathing anymore but making sharp gasps of need/pain/desire, his hips bunching and muscles cording and body betraying him as it urges him to a fast and messy resolution.

“Em—Em… _Em!”_ he stammers, choking out a _fuh_ and then a _f-fuck **fuck**_ and then slamming home. Hard. He tilts, moans, does it once more. And she moves into it, as he thrusts down, she cocks her hips up and takes him hard. His hands bite deep. He bows and nips at her throat, her nip, her shoulder, thrusts home again. Trembles.

“Mark me,” she tells him, because she knows he wants to. Knows there’s a little bit of him that’s selfish and jealous and remembers her thinking about Hotch earlier. “Show him I’m yours.”

He makes a noise like a snarl against her skin, and bites. Bites and thrusts one last time, kissing at the almost broken skin, licking it, nipping again, and then coming in a long slow, pulse that seems to last forever. He doesn’t warn her. Maybe he didn’t know it was coming. All she knows is that suddenly she’s throbbing, pulsing, feeling a warm pressure pushing into her, and it feels like too much, like too long. She whines at the warmth and the heat, drags his ass down tighter despite the little rolling shifts of his hips as he tries unconsciously to get as much inside her as possible, and wraps her legs tight around him so he can’t pull out as she slides down and then up his semen-sticky, softening cock. Somewhere between him biting her and now, she’s lost her goddamn mind, just frantic to keep fucking him for as long as those slowly weakening pulses keep going.

“I’m still,” he breathes, jerking in her grip. “Oh fuck, I’m still coming, fuck, Emily fuck,” and she rolls him onto his back and grabs his hand to bring it to her clit, pressing his thumb against her and babbling wildly. Maybe telling him he’s amazing, maybe telling him off for the mess she can feel oozing out around him, maybe telling her to get her off one last time. But whichever it is, he goes for the last and circles her with his thumb as his cock softens enough that it must be hurting him that she’s still rubbing against it. And he seems like he’s hurting, torn between pleasure and pain, right until he slips a finger into her alongside his dick and brings it out wet and sticky and uses that on her as well. His other hand comes up to her shoulder, where his teeth have marked her, and he grips it hard and says, “My Emily,” in a voice like he means it.

She comes with a yelp she barely muffles and, when the ripples of it fade, finally lets him go and slumps down beside him.

She can’t move. She doesn’t think she’ll ever move again, even as the bed under them gets wetter and she feels something oozing from her. Eyes closed, breathing slowly, she tries to remember how to be human and move her lips and stand up and say _something_.

He gets his brain back first. “Happy birthday,” he says quietly. It’s seven past twelve.

“Never do that to me again,” she tells him, and finally rolls into his arms. “I need a shower.”

He slips out of grasp and rolls away, hitting the floor with a thump and a groan. When he returns, it’s with heavy lidded eyes and a warm washcloth. “Go urinate,” he tells her firmly, ever the romanticist. “I’ll wash you when you get back.”

Any of her arguments against that flounder when she does get back, finding him slumped backwards in the blankets, eyes closed and dead to the world. Washcloth in hand.

Smiling, she tugs it free and wipes at his sticky front carefully, his eyes flickering barely open at her. “S’our b’day,” he slurs, absolutely fucked. Completely exhausted.

Hers, entirely.

“I have a lot more coming,” she promises him, setting the cloth aside and kissing his slack lips. He kisses back, twice, but sleepily and pliantly, relaxing with every shift of her mouth against his. “And we’ll spend them all together, I promise.”

He mumbles something, eyes closing. She kisses him to sleep and then she washes up and curls in next to him.

“Thank you,” she whispers to his heart, beating steadily in his chest. “I love you.” His heart doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t need to. She knows anyway.

And the night finally ends, broken only by her phone humming twice and Spencer’s once, unread until morning.

**From: Rossi To: Emily**

**That makes eight. Good god woman, can I borrow him when you’re done?**

**From: Bossman To: Prentiss**

**Ignore him. He’s being a child. Goodnight.**

**From: Rossi To: Brainypants**

**HOW**


	8. +0:00

“Good morning,” hums a voice above him. Spencer struggles to open his eyes, loses the struggle, lets them stay shut. Weekend. It’s a… weekend. He dozes. “ _Spence_.”

“Morning, Em,” he mumbles, and smiles. Wonders why he’s smiling. Remembers. Smiles more because he’s in his bed, in his apartment, in his _life_ , and she’s here with him. And planning to stay.

Maybe he does get to be happy. Just this once.

He rolls, eyes still closed, sappy smile in place, and nuzzles against her. “Did you know it takes four minutes to fall in love?” he tells her sleepily, curling closer and being gratified by the soft press of her breast against his cheek. He’ll never admit that to her though. She’d frown at him. And then put her bathrobe on. And it’s the _weekend_. No clothes on weekends.

“How come it took you so long then?” she asks, and moves around him, rolling him onto his stomach and ignoring his sleepy protest. Hands run down his spine. Oh. That’s nice… lips follow, as she traces a path down his back and across the line of his ass…

He moans appreciatively and feels himself sinking back to sleep.

He _likes_ weekends.

“Happy birthday,” she says suddenly, wickedly, whispering it into the skin of his hip. Spencer blinks his eyes opened, confused for a second.

“My birthday isn’t until tomorrow?” he asks, turning his head back to look and finding her smiling wickedly. “Em…?”

The hum in her hand is loud and threatening.

“Twenty-four hours,” she says, and lowers the vibrator.

**Author's Note:**

> **Edited August, 2017.**


End file.
